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[b]Essos, between Pentos and Myr, the Flatlands[/b]

Daemon had minted his own coinage; a three-headed dragon on one side, with a rendering of himself on the other. Gold had always been Daemon’s colour, in spite of men calling him the Black. [i]Our Word is as Good as Gold[/i]. The currency had survived the Black Dragon’s demise, and that of his sons, at that disaster that men called Redgrass Field. One of such surviving golden coins was being turned round and round in the callous but nimble hands of a large man with sable hair turning grey at the temples. He wore a closely cropped beard with only a few silver hairs noticeable. The insignia on his broad shoulders denoted him as the captain-general of his own free company, one of the youngest but biggest active in Essos. Even those that had not met him, would know him for the man that never smiled; the man that had been born a bastard; the man in love with a beautiful but dangerous silver pearl; the angry man; the man beaten by his brother; the man who had taken up Daemon Blackfyre’s cause after his death, his body feathered with arrows.

The man, who fiddled with the coin, had founded this proud company. It was Aegor Rivers, whom men called Bittersteel. While he kept up the charade of the righteous cause, he made himself believe they were in the right. Often though, doubt crept into his thoughts, and no amount of drinking or fucking pushed it out again. When would they go back? When could they? How? The coin helped him remember. The goal became clear again, in the worn, shiny surface of the golden dragon. Sometimes Daemon spoke to him through the reflection, his rendering coming alive, but not this time.

His death had left a great hole.

Wearing his breastplate, his personal sigil emblazoned into the dun metal, Aegor stepped out of the command tent and into the day. It was already hot out, even though they had only just broken their fasts, water rations were being passed around. A few strides from the command tent, stood a table with foldable chairs. Neat stacks of coins and carefully organised papers laid upon the table. Redtusk stood nearby, encased in his trademark armour with the tusked helmet, his arms resting on that two-handed warhammer of his. Beside him stood Black Byren Flowers, another man of renown, fearsome and tall. Together with three others, they kept the peace as the paymaster handed out the wages. A long line stretched out beyond, comprising of exiles, lost causes and the disinherited, all reduced to the life of sellswords. At least Aegor had managed to give them that rarest of things: an ounce of honour. Men clung to honour like a shipwrecked sailor to a piece of driftwood. Disgraced as they were, it was honour that banded most of them together, not gold.

A small fighting ring had been put up not far from the command tents, and Aegor had purposefully chosen said location. When men wait for their pay, their tongues wander –as do their eyes. He had made sure they had got something to see: the heir to the King Who Bore the Sword. Bittersteel sighed. All men reach and fall… reach and fall.

Daemon’s third son, the eldest surviving one, was the spitting image of his unfortunate father. This came in handy to keep those knights and soldiers loyal who still remembered the Black Dragon and his ways. Bittersteel even felt a tinge of pride when he watched his nephew, swinging his sword expertly in the ring, fighting three men at once. Daemon was bare-chested, sweat glistening on his bronzed skin as he moved as nimble as a panther. He was lean and lithe, with a comely clean-shaved face and fine features, and the hair and eyes of a true Targaryen. Aegor thought everything about him screamed nobility. When he looked at the young man, he saw a man he could follow when the time was ripe; a man he could call king.

He also saw a problem.

For all his qualities, for all his strengths, for all his gifts, Daemon had one major flaw for kingship. Bittersteel spat as he acknowledged the issue for the thousandth time over. Daemon II Blackfyre liked to place his sword in other men’s sheaths. Aegor had little problem what sort of amorous activities his nephew pursued, the lad still had the capacity to father sons and daughters, and even if he did, the Blackfyre line would not die out. The Black Dragon had seen to that, with his notorious fertility. After Redgrass Field, Aegor had fled Westeros with five of Daemon’s sons, not just the one practicing the sword-song in front of the men.

Having strengthened his resolve, Aegor put the coin back into the tiny pouch on the inside of his leather belt. As he made his way to the ring, his boots kicked up dust, making him think he would prefer by far them kicking up Westerosi dust, instead of this.

Daemon laughed when he parried the blow of one of the assailant and dodged another, he then stepped in making Ser Waldon Shawney trip and fall. One of the two standing caught Daemon’s elbow in the face when he lunged forward, the Blackfyre prince deftly pirouetting out of harm’s way.

“Enough,” Bittersteel called out, his voice and tone lending credence to his name. “Daemon, we need to talk.”

A silver-haired brow went up on the young warrior’s face, while maintaining his dashing smile. “Oh? What about this time, uncle?”

Aegor waited until the three knights had gathered their dignity and bearing, rubbing their bruises while taking off. “Baelor is dead.”

“Truly?”

Bittersteel nodded and leaned onto the wooden fence that marked out the circle. “Dead because of a wound taken at a tourney. A blow of Maekar’s mace to the head, cracked his skull like an egg. Report came in the night. Bloodraven is not the only with spies about.” The news had come, borne on raven’s wings, which was an apt considering its source.

“Maekar did it? So…,” Daemon sheathed his sword, looking for words. He only seemed mildly out of breath. “What does that mean for us?”

Aegor Rivers was the man that never smiled, but people thought in extremes. Aegor did smile, every so often, but when he did it was a terrible one. “It means we can finally think about going home.” If Baelor had taken the throne, Westeros would have been far too united to take on. However, the nature of Breakspear’s death by his brother’s hand is what sowed discord in the realm. Bloodraven was trying to pick up the pieces, and so far nobody had come to blows. Bittersteel figured that was merely a matter of time though, since Bloodraven had never been a man of half measures. At least a third of the company’s fighting men were here because the former Hand and Master of Whisperers had proven too uncompromising, too unforgiving. Baelor Breakspear had been different, a man who made allies out of enemies. But Breakspear was dead, and so the company had better prepare. “Daeron mourns. Valarr is young and inexperienced. Aerys is weak and Rhaegel mad. The others are of no import. That only leaves Maeker and Bloodraven to steer the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Maekar killed his brother and Bloodraven is hated and a bastard. Neither of them are loved, you have said so often.”

“They do not inspire confidence the way Baelor did, the way your father did.” Bittersteel let his eyes lock with his nephew for some time before adding: “the way you do.” Daemon cast his eyes down to the disturbed earth –dashing and handsome, that nephew of his, and humble in spite of it. Aegor cleared his throat and tried to adopt a friendlier tone, which was virtually impossible for him. It chafed him. “It also means your times of pillow-biting are over.”

Daemon started, looked up, his purple eyes wide with alarm, horror even perhaps.

“What? You thought I did not know?” Aegor was getting angry in spite of his intentions. “I have been bribing and cajoling men for years. Seven hells, some call you the Brown Dragon! Why do you think that is? Because of your complexion? What I would give for a playboy, who could not keep it in his pants and runs through women like whetstones…” Bittersteel threw his arms up in choler. “Instead… what I have, what the men have, is a prince who shows no interest in women.” The captain-general gripped the wood of the ring so tight he could feel it crack and creak in his hands. Shaking his head he continued. “What you do at night with your boys after your show of skirt-chasing is a disgrace. If it were Haegon or Maegor or any of your younger brothers… or if Aemon and Aegon would have lived, I wouldn’t care. But for a king it,” he struck the wood with each word, “is not possible”. Bittersteel took a deep breath and stared his nephew down. “Not possible.”

Daemon had adopted a bland expression, but Aegor knew him too well and saw through it. He wanted to apologise, but could not, it was just not his nature. The Bracken bastard was angry at the world. “We give up what we want, when we want power. All of us. Now, show us you have the heart to be king. Show me,” Bittersteel tapped his breastplate, baring his teeth, “you can control it. Wrestle it to the ground. Numb it with ice. But you cannot be what the Seven made you. Not if you mean to take your father’s place and ascend to the Iron Throne.” The message had come across, clearly, Aegor saw, for his nephew was trembling. [i]Good[/i], he thought, [i]you’re a dragon, lad. Show me you’ve got the fire.[/i]

“Do this,” Bittersteel concluded, “and I will hand you your father’s sword Blackfyre. Do this and we can go home.”